It All Started With Food
by The Beautiful Filth
Summary: "Okay, I don't think I've made myself clear enough. Why did you throw a smoke bomb into the kitchen?" Oneshot, featuring teenage Mal. Complete.


**Hi there guys! :)**

**I was feeling extremely bored one day when I was revising, so I asked a friend for some nouns. (Yeah, J, I asked you for these words to write a story) Pretty sure that random question freaked them out, but whatever. J gave me "psychologist" and "food" and mentioned something about evil math lessons in school, and then I had this idea and wrote it within an hour. (Thanks, J!)**

**And oh, if I asked you for nouns and I haven't written one yet, it's mainly because I just haven't got the idea yet :P but I'll get to them!**

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**Disclaimer: I do not own Cause of Death.**

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"Goodness," the brunette in her mid-twenties heaved an exasperated and exaggerated sigh. "Mal, what did you do this time?"

The adolescent in question glanced nonchalantly out of the window of his elder sister's Toyota, and rolled his eyes at the glass. He would not answer her – she wasn't his boss anyway. He didn't have a boss now, but he used to; only that the boss was now rotting merrily away in jail in a monkey jumpsuit, according to what he had said two months prior.

"Mal."

Cynthia Fallon raised her voice, sending a sharp glare at her younger brother's direction. All she received was a snort in response, and it sent her over the edge. Feeling her fury escalating, the elder woman stomped on the breaks as they reached the side of the road, with the tyres protesting furiously with multiple screeches. As they halted to a stop, Mal had a bruise that was starting to form on his forehead, and Cynthia jabbed her elbow with the car keys in the ignition.

"Malachi Charles Fallon!" This time, she didn't hesitate to yank her brother by the sleeve of his black, worn out leather jacket. "Just what the _hell_ did you do?"

Mal turned to Cynthia with a deadpan look on his face, implying that Cynthia was a dumbass to not be able to see why he got sent home and got three weeks' worth of detention for.

"Nothing important," he shrugged, tearing his eyes from Cynthia to focus on the tiny white speck on the windshield. "Just had some fun."

"Fun?" Cynthia's voice was rising steadily. "Fun? You call that fun? So throwing smoke bombs into the cafeteria kitchen is fun, eh?"

"Yup."

Cynthia gave the hardest glare to Mal that she could muster. Never before had she thought she would be the one to watch out for her brother. _Brothers were supposed to look after sisters, even though the brother was younger!_ As she put every ounce of her wrath into the single glare that she could give him, she suppressed the urge to raise her fist and punch Mal square in the jaw.

"You know, I'd love to put my fist through your jaw right now." Cynthia huffed after a few minutes of silence.

"I'd like to see you try, Cyn," he sneered. "You can't even hurt a fly or smash a spider without screaming in that girly screech."

With that, Mal fixated his glare at the pine tree behind Cynthia, and before he knew it, a sharp blow was delivered to his jaw. As he transfixed his anger onto Cynthia, he was greeted by an equally blue and furious-looking pair of blue eyes.

"Did you just punch me?"

"Nope," his sister replied, flexing her right hand to alleviate the pain in her probably dislocated knuckles. "I just retracted my right arm, extended it and lodged it in your jaw."

He grunted in response, and Cynthia took this opportunity to restart the Toyota.

"Oh! By the way," she added, "you're seeing a psychologist whether you like it or not. I'll book an appointment for Wednesday. Show up on time, and be nice to Dr. Cranley."

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_"Be nice to Dr. Cranley."_

Cynthia's voice rang in his ears, making the teenage boy flinch. He didn't need to be nice to Dr. Cranley – he hadn't asked to be here in the first place. But if Cynthia insisted (and basically threatened to tell Mom everything on his juvie record), well, he didn't have a choice, did he?

Letting out an almost inaudible groan, he pushed the glass door to Dr. Cranley's office.

The room was bright, but it absolutely was _not_ in accordance to his currently surly mood. In the centre of the room stood a wooden desk, where a redhead sat. Just as he sat down into the seat in front of her, she stood up.

"C'mere."

Grunting, he followed Dr. Cranley to another side of her room where a bunch of plush seats laid on the ground messily, along with some cushions and random toys and magazines. He kicked the toys and magazines out of his path, and unceremoniously plopped onto a bright red plush seat. Dr. Cranley sat opposite to him, leaning onto the wall while sitting on a blue cushion.

After a few minutes of silence, Mal spoke up. "You know, I don't want to be here –"

"Yeah," the redhead cut her off. "So let's just get this over with, okay?"

He nodded, and they settled into quietness again. After what seemed like an hour when it was around five minutes in reality, he started. "Dr. Cra –"

"Mileigh. Call me Mileigh or Mills."

"_Mileigh_," he rolled his eyes. "Are you going to ask me anything or not?"

She stared back. "I was hoping you'd talk."

Mal snickered. "Have fun. I'm not talking."

"See who's talking," she shot back, rendering Mal speechless. He hadn't expected to be forced to see a psychologist who would actually _retort_. "But if you want me to ask you something so much, let's start easy. What exactly did you do on Monday?"

He fidgeted with a frayed thread in his leather jacket, muttering profanities as he realised he'd have to ask Cynthia to mend this jacket, and he'd never live that down when the others got wind of it.

"Slammed lockers, pushed people aside, made out with Sandra –"

"Sandra?"

"Girlfriend," Mal explained, and Mileigh gestured him to continue.

"Had lunch, and… well, I guess I threw a smoking bomb into the kitchen."

"What?" Mileigh's voice rose in surprise.

"A smoking bomb, yup."

"But why?" She raised an eyebrow in incredulity. Mileigh Cranley was a friend of Cynthia Fallon's, but she never expected that the good-natured woman would have a delinquent for a brother.

"Because."

The burgundy-haired psychologist stared openly at the adolescent sitting across her, and cleared her throat. "Okay, I don't think I've made myself clear enough. Why did you throw a smoke bomb into the kitchen?"

"Because the food sucks."

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**Yeah, so that's a short story, with "psychologist" and "food" as prompts. It's an extreme poor attempt in humor though, seeing how everything I write is related to hurt/comfort or tragedy or angst in one way or another... **

**If you'd like to see other stories based on other prompts, leave a review and tell me! I'm open to many ideas :)**

**-Christie**


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